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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870708">Strangers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticlux/pseuds/quixoticlux'>quixoticlux</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1980s setting, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Cold War Era, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Jealousy, Sexual Tension, Soviet Sleeper Agents, Spies, The Americans AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:29:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870708</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticlux/pseuds/quixoticlux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rey’s a trained liar. Most of all to herself.</p><p>She knows the real reason she’s never made a move towards him, even during the loneliest nights in a strange country, which might as well be a different planet. She’s always prided herself on keeping a level head, but she doesn’t think she can separate sex and love when it comes to him. She can do it with anyone else <em>but</em> him.</p><p>She’s not frightened of much, but she’s terrified of failing her country, her family, her communist values. She’s not afraid of death, but of disgrace. And getting romantically entangled with Ben... it’ll get in the way of doing her job. Her judgement will become clouded. She’ll begin letting her emotions affect her decisions instead of cold, hard rationality, which never ends well. Once Anna Karenina left the comfort of her husband to indulge her passion for Vronsky... sure, she had a few good orgasms, but she threw herself in front of a train at the end.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Kira Palpavich was seventeen when she’d joined the KGB. Twenty-two when she became Rey Solo, instructed to move to a strange country with a strange man—a man who would become her partner, her husband.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>The only thing this man isn’t is her lover.</b>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren &amp; Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey &amp; Ben Solo, Rey &amp; Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>303</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Lies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semperfidani/gifts">Semperfidani</a>.</li>



    </ul><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic is for Semperfidani, with whom I share a love of <em>The Americans</em>, period pieces, and ‘80s new wave. She also created the beautiful moodboard! 🤍</p><p>This isn’t a faithful retelling. Plots/characters have been changed, gender-swapped, streamlined. Some scenes are the same(ish), but most are entirely different.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>In an upper-middle-class neighborhood, on a quiet suburban street, inside a cornflower-blue colonial house with white shutters, inside the master bedroom on the second floor, a couple sleeps.</p><p>Or rather, the man sleeps while the woman lies awake, staring at him. It’s a bad habit, she knows. Just as bad as the cigarettes she sneaks every so often in the garage, or the cashmere sweaters she buys from Bloomingdales, though she justifies the latter with being part of the image she’s required to maintain, even if her hand lingers upon the buttery soft fabric a little too long. It’s a luxury she would have never been able to afford where she comes from. One she feels guilty about, because in those few indulgent seconds, she thinks maybe this life isn’t so bad after all.</p><p>It’s in these two golden hours after the sun has risen but before the alarm goes off that this woman feels closest to being herself. She’s not quite Kira Palpavich, not anymore, but she’s not Reyanne Solo, either. And she thinks the man sleeping next to her is the closest version of himself too, in this brief window of time as he lies sleeping, unaware. Unarmed. It’s the only time she can see him like this. The only time she can gaze at him without suspicion. Without his eyes narrowing, growing as hard, dark, and cold as coal, wondering what she’s up to.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He looks different like this. Younger. The lines of his furrowed brow have been smoothed away, his lips not set in their usual pursed, annoyed line, but soft, supple. She wonders what it could be like to kiss them. Not a brief, perfunctory kiss goodbye at the door when she hands him his lunch, just in case any of the neighbors are watching. But a real kiss.</p><p>It strikes her she’s never had one.</p><p>She was seventeen when she joined the KGB. She’d never had a boyfriend. Her first kiss was in front of the realtor showing them the house, and even then, it was with Benjamin Solo, the travel agent from Indiana. Not Konstantin—or Kylo—Renov, the cocky rich boy from Moscow with a grandfather who works as the Minister of Transportation.</p><p>She wonders what he was like before he joined. He’s older than her, thirty-two or thirty-three. She never asked. She’s not even sure if his birthday in late November is his real birthday, or the one the Center assigned him. They encourage secrets, even to each other. If one of them were to ever get caught, the less they know about their partner, the better. Holding onto their former lives only creates complications, preventing them from fully assimilating. No, it’s better not to know. It doesn’t stop her from wondering though.</p><p>He’d been twenty-nine or so when she first saw him, standing in General Zhukov’s office. At first it was only his back as he faced the desk, broad with muscles she could practically see underneath that expensive black jacket; long, luxurious waves brushing the collar. Her first thought was how tall he was; taller than any man she’d ever seen. And then he turned around, and all the air in her lungs whooshed out, and she doesn’t think she’s ever been able to take another proper breath, three and a half years later.</p><p>She’d felt painfully ugly on that Tuesday afternoon in mid-December, standing in front of him in her scratchy seafoam cardigan with holes, worn to hide the stains in her white blouse. As they’d sat down to tea on the General’s leather couch, she couldn’t help the sinking feeling that he was disappointed, even if she wasn’t his real fiancé. Even if they’d never be anything more than comrades. Their real marriage would always be to the USSR.</p><p>She wonders what made a man like him decide to join Directorate S. He could have had a cushy job with his grandfather at the Kremlin. Or if he wanted to go to America so badly, he could have just worked at a Soviet embassy. Was it adventure he wanted? She doubts it was for the same reasons she joined. While he’s always been very good at his job, there’s a part of her that can’t help but think he fits right into the decadent depravity of Western capitalism.</p><p>While she feels guilt at all the nice things she has—the gold and diamonds in her jewelry box, the nice clothes hanging in her side of the closet—he doesn’t seem to have any such qualms about his Rolex or array of expensive suits, every inch perfectly tailored to his body. And they share the same bathroom—she’s seen the hair products.</p><p>The alarm goes off. It’s set to a local D.C. station, New Order’s “Blue Monday” suddenly filling the room, the synthesizers and drum machine kicking off another day as Mr. and Mrs. Solo, co-owners of Oasis Travel. A nice, if not a little boring, couple who met at Boston University while she was an undergrad majoring in English Lit and he was getting his MBA. A couple very much in love, who like to cook together, have a date night every weekend, and occasionally throw a wine and cheese party for their neighbors and friends. A couple that makes love every single night.</p><p>Of course, no one knows the truth. Not even the Center.</p><p>Ben Solo opens his eyes, staring straight at his wife. He does so without a remnant of sleep, as if he’s been awake this entire time.</p><p>*</p><p>In between missions, there’s routine.</p><p>They get up at eight. As Rey gets dressed, Ben makes the bed with military-grade precision, which still surprises her even after all this time, figuring he’d grown up with a maid doing it for him. But she supposes it fits in with his perfectionist nature, his need for control.</p><p>They get dressed. Rey used to only do this in the bathroom, but she no longer suffers from modesty. And besides, three and a half years of living with Ben means he’s seen her naked, even if it’s only been accidental flashes. As she pulls on a sweater and trousers, she’s tries her hardest not to sneak glances at him as he gets dressed on the other side of the room. She tries not to wonder if he ever sneaks glances her way.</p><p>They make breakfast. Or rather, Ben makes breakfast while Rey turns on the coffee maker. He reads the paper while she goes over their appointments in her planner.</p><p>He leaves first. With the front door open, she hands him a brown paper bag with a chicken salad sandwich inside, and he kisses her goodbye. Tight, close-lipped. Scripted. She watches him walk to his car—a metallic gold ‘83 Pontiac Grand Prix—and open the door. Back out of the driveway and onto the street. She doesn’t close the door until he’s completely out of sight.</p><p>As she washes the dishes, she stares out the window at the quiet neighborhood.</p><p>She heads down to the basement. Opens the safe behind the shelf. Pulling her fresh haircut back, she slides the earpiece into her right ear, over her dangling earring. Turns the dial on the shortwave radio, making sure it’s tuned into the correct station.</p><p>There’ll be static for another few minutes. She’s early. She always is. If she happens to miss the broadcast, it repeats ten minutes later on another frequency, but she doesn’t want to start getting sloppy. It’s a slippery slope from there.</p><p>A long beeping noise. A robotic man’s voice begins reciting the numbers in Russian. <em>Phyat. Ah-deen. Shest. Chye-tir-ye devyat dva. Chye-tir-ye devyat dva. Syem syem. Syem syem. Ah-deen tree shest shest vosem. Ah-deen tree shest shest vosem. Chye-tir-ye devyat dva. Chye-tir-ye dva. Syem syem. Null. Null. Null. Null. Null.</em></p><p>In the creased margin of the newspaper Ben was reading earlier, in pencil: 516 492 492 77 77 13668 13668 492 492 77 00000.</p><p>She turns to her one-time pad, flipping through the tiny paper-thin pages. She spends the next few minutes decoding the ciphertext, after which she destroys the page by dissolving it underneath a stream of running water from the sink, knowing it’s already long been destroyed in Moscow.</p><p>When she goes to put the radio back into the safe, something catches her eye. A cassette she doesn’t recognize. It must be the recording from last night. She slides it into the cassette recorder, plugs her earpiece into the jack, and hits PLAY.</p><p>“You like that?” she hears Ben say, his voice even lower than usual, but still in control.</p><p>A woman moans. “Don’t stop,” she whines.</p><p>“I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to,” he says. Rey closes her eyes, pretending he’s speaking to her. “God, look at you. You’re so beautiful like this.”</p><p>“Need you… inside me… so badly… <em>please</em>…”</p><p>Rey hits STOP. Fast-forwards the tape. She gives it a good thirty or so seconds before hitting PLAY again.</p><p>“—be a one-time thing, will it?” the woman asks, pathetic hesitation in her voice.</p><p>“Of course not,” Ben lies, smooth as leather. “Though…” A pause. "Never mind.”</p><p>“What? Tell me. <em>What?</em>”</p><p>“It’s just…” He sighs. "My ex-girlfriend was a secretary too, and I guess I’m just looking for someone a little more… I don’t know, motivated?”</p><p>“I’m not just a regular secretary,” the woman says, her pride clearly wounded. “I don’t usually tell people this… at least, not until I know them a little better. But I think we might really have something.”</p><p>“I think so too.”</p><p>“Okay, so... I work for the FBI.”</p><p>Ben snorts. “No way.”</p><p>“I swear to God! I work in the counter-intelligence office.”</p><p>“That’s crazy.”</p><p>“It’s true! In fact”—her voice takes on a hushed, excited tone—“we just turned a high-ranking KGB officer! The Cold War might be over by 1986.”</p><p>“<em>Wow</em>, really? Who is it? It’s okay if you can’t tell me, I’m just fascinated. I never knew you were so… <em>important</em>. It’s incredibly sexy.” Rey rolls her eyes.</p><p>“I think his name is Igor... no, Yegor Pluttev.”</p><p>Rey hits STOP. Her heart is thumping erratically against her ribcage, her stomach twisting violently. Bile threatens to rise, but she screws her eyes shut, pushing it back down. She falls back on her training, the swell of her emotions ebbing until she can’t feel them anymore. She’s outside herself now, her body moving on autopilot, her mind blank, her conscious not quite clear but empty, void, <em>not found</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>The bell above the front door of Oasis Travel chimes as Rey pulls it open. The office is small with only four employees, but they do well enough. Posters advertising exotic places all around the world line the wood-paneled walls.</p><p>Underneath a poster of New Zealand, Ben is leaning on the edge of the receptionist’s desk. She may not know his body sexually, but thanks to years of fighting side-by-side, she knows it all the same. He’s flirting.</p><p>Jessika straightens when she sees her. “Good morning, Mrs. Solo.”</p><p>Rey gives Ben an icy, withering look that makes Siberia look like a sauna. She strolls past him, to the back office. As she shrugs out of her wool coat, Ben softly shuts the door behind them.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks, and if she didn’t know him any better, she’d think there was concern there.</p><p>“Nothing.” She pulls out her chair and sits down.</p><p>“Rey.”</p><p>She flips through a few papers on her desk mindlessly, pretending to look for something. “Do you think you could manage to keep it in your trousers, at least when it comes to our employees?”</p><p>There’s a few long seconds of silence that she can feel, looming behind her. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“The last thing we need is a sexual harassment lawsuit. And I don’t think the Center would appreciate you bringing attention to yourself.”</p><p>A large hand suddenly slams on top of her papers, interrupting her very important shuffling. Rey glares up at him. “Do you <em>mind?</em>”</p><p>“I <em>do</em>, actually,” he says, his voice cold but his eyes heated. A muscle in his clenched jaw twitches. “I haven’t done <em>anything</em> to jeopardize what we’re doing here.”</p><p>“You sure about that?”</p><p>“You know…” He leans down, invading her space. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”</p><p>Rey scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“You can fuck whoever you’d like. I couldn’t care less. So long as your dick doesn’t get in the way of the mission.”</p><p>“My <em>dick</em> is what gets us information, sweetheart.”</p><p>Rey swallows hard. It’s not like she didn’t know this. They were both trained to seduce, a skill in espionage just as important as combat. And easier too. Less blood to clean up. When sources are tortured, there’s still a part of them holding back—for their country, for some last shred of pride. But when they’re being tortured exquisitely with pleasure, they’ll give up so much more. Make them fall in love, and they’ll give up <em>everything</em>.</p><p>“Not enough,” she counters.</p><p>“I got the name of the traitor, didn’t I?”</p><p>“You did,” she concedes. “But not his whereabouts, nor the location of the safehouse, nor when he meets his handler, nor—”</p><p>“It’s a lot more than <em>you</em> got.”</p><p>Rey’s vision is taking on a red hue. “You know for a <em>fact</em> I could have gotten it out of Poe. He’s an <em>actual</em> agent, not just a ditzy secretary.”</p><p>“Ah yes, <em>Poe</em>…” Ben drags out the name mockingly. “Just how is <em>Poe</em> these days?”</p><p>“He’s well,” she says, though she hadn’t talked to him in a few weeks, even with him being right across the street. She knows he’s going through a messy divorce, and that he’s always fancied her. It would be so easy.</p><p>“Maybe you should invite him over for dinner.”</p><p>“That’s a good idea.”</p><p>“As you’re making it—or rather, removing it from the take-out containers—I’ll excuse myself to the office. Last-minute travel arrangements for a client.” He stands up straight, smoothing down his tie. “Just be sure to change the sheets before I get home. I don’t want to smell his <em>musk</em> as I’m trying to sleep.”</p><p>Rey scoffs. “He doesn’t have a musk.”</p><p>“He does. He reeks of Drakkar Noir and desperation.”</p><p>“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous,” she throws his own words back at him.</p><p>Ben laughs, a harsh sound that glints like a knife. “Jealous of <em>Miami Vice?</em> Whatever you want to believe, sweetheart.”</p><p>“Stop calling me ‘sweetheart,’” she snaps. “I’m not your sweetheart.”</p><p>“No, you’re just my wife.”</p><p>“Is that right?”</p><p>Knocking interrupts whatever <em>this</em> is. Jessika opens the door, her eyes immediately flitting to Ben, as they always do. Rey wonders if he’s already fucked her.</p><p>“Your ten-thirty is here,” she says. “He said he’s thinking about somewhere tropical.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Rey says curtly. “We’ll be right there.”</p><p>Ben locks the door behind Jessika. “Any messages from the Center?”</p><p>“No,” Rey lies, and she does it well. She’s had five years of training in deception before she met Kylo; before she came over to America with Ben. And yet it feels like he can see right through her. Like there’s a psychic connection between them, the way they move together, mirrored, predicting, anticipating. And not just when they work together. Whenever she looks at him, at the exact same time, he looks at her. It never fails to send a shiver down her spine, that almost supernatural sense of synchronicity. Of being completely in tune with another person to the point where it sometimes feels as if they’re the same soul split in two.</p><p>It's almost romantic, even when they're flipping through files with a flashlight or strangling someone with a telephone cord. But she's a girl from Smolensk; the daughter of a coal miner and a maid. She's never had the luxury of believing in fairytales.</p><p>*</p><p>Mangled bare branches pierce the marbled gray sky, crumbled orange leaves swirling with every gust. As the coldness of the iron bench seeps through Rey’s trousers, she pulls the lapels of her wool coat tighter around herself, glancing at her wristwatch as she does so. 5:38 PM. She takes a sip of her bodega coffee as she eyes a jogger in the distance.</p><p>A man in his sixties, pot-bellied in a sweater vest and graying underneath a newsboy cap, sits down on the bench behind her. He casually opens the newspaper tucked underneath his arm.</p><p>“Sorry about the location,” he says. “Next time, we’ll meet in a safehouse.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Rey says as she takes another sip. “We’re Russian. We should be used to the cold.”</p><p>“And disappointment,” Kenobi quips. “Speaking of which… the Center wants me to tell you that time is running out.”</p><p>“I know. I need more time.”</p><p>“It’s been three and a half years, Rey. You’ve had more than enough time.”</p><p>“I don’t know if…” She trails off, suddenly feeling as awkward and insecure as the seventeen-year-old girl she once was.</p><p>“If what?”</p><p>“If he wants to.”</p><p>“He’s been made aware of the circumstances, same as you.”</p><p>Rey’s heart stutters. Later, she’ll blame it on too much caffeine. Too many late nights. “What? When?”</p><p>“He knows what’s at stake,” Kenobi weaves around her questions, as he always does. “You have to look like the All-American family, with roots in this country. It’s too suspicious when it’s just the two of you.”</p><p>“How long has he known?”</p><p>For a few long seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of distant cars and wind rushing in her ear. She’s just about given up when she hears him say, “As long as you have. Maybe even longer. It’s always been assumed as a natural result, from the moment you were assigned together. Surely this can’t be a surprise?”</p><p>“No,” she answers. “I just… I don’t know where to begin.”</p><p>“Oh dear, I had hoped you’d know about the birds and the bees by now.”</p><p>Rey bites her lip to keep from smiling. “No, that’s not it. He hasn’t… If you’d ordered him to, he <em>hasn’t</em>.”</p><p>“It wasn’t exactly an order, but a <em>suggestion</em>.”</p><p>“Aren’t they the same thing?”</p><p>Kenobi concedes with a grunt. “We’ve been working together for a while now. I’ve grown rather fond of you, Kira. I’d hate for anything to change.” He stands up, folding his newspaper. “I know you’ll do what needs to be done.”</p><p>“I always have,” she answers, but he’s already gone.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s close to two in the morning. Rey’s sneaking a cigarette out the bedroom window instead of the garage, cradling a glass of vodka on the rocks as she listens to “Voices Carry” by ‘Til Tuesday on the boombox on the vanity. Ben’s still not home, out with the secretary again. Kaydel Connix. Rey makes a note to look into her.</p><p>Ben was right—she’s jealous. It’s ridiculous. She has no right to be. It’s not like they’re actually married. They’re practically strangers. Three and a half years and there’s still so much she doesn’t know about him. Sure, she knows what he likes to eat, what he likes to watch, what he likes to listen to. Not that he’s ever told her these things; it’s part of her job to be observant. Just like how he must know the same things about her.</p><p>Not that she needs to know him to have children with him. That’s not what this is. She should look upon this as yet another mission, albeit a long one; one that will last the rest of their lives, however long that might be. But it’s not like she has a choice. The Center tells her what to do, and she must do it. There’s no room for negotiation. No way to turn back.</p><p>Not that sleeping with him would be a chore. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about it a million times. If she said she didn’t sneak stolen glances at his lean, muscular chest whenever he pulled his shirt off, or follow the trail of wiry dark hair disappearing into his jeans slung low on his hips. If she said her heart didn’t flutter every time he looked at her, every time he touched her, even though he seems to go out of his way not to.</p><p>But Rey’s a trained liar. Most of all to herself.</p><p>She knows the real reason she’s never made a move towards him, even during the loneliest nights in a strange country, which might as well be a different planet. She’s always prided herself on keeping a level head, but she doesn’t think she can separate sex and love when it comes to him. She can do it with anyone else <em>but</em> him.</p><p>She’s not frightened of much, but she’s terrified of failing her country, her family, her communist values. She’s not afraid of death, but of disgrace. And getting romantically entangled with Ben... it’ll get in the way of doing her job. Her judgement will become clouded. She’ll begin letting her emotions affect her decisions instead of cold, hard rationality, which never ends well. Once Anna Karenina left the comfort of her husband to indulge her passion for Vronsky... sure, she had a few good orgasms, but she threw herself in front of a train at the end.</p><p>And now she’s been ordered to cross the line she’s been so careful to avoid like trip wire. She looks over at the bed they share—the bed they’ve only slept in—wondering why he hasn’t made a move towards her. Does he find her repulsive? Is he in love with someone else?</p><p>He was nearly thirty when they were thrust together—surely he must have had relationships with other women before then. Real relationships, with women who called him by his real name. Does he yearn for any of them still? Is there anyone he keeps a photo of, tucked away someplace she doesn’t know about? Does he ever dream of what could have been, the family he could have had, with a woman he actually wants to make love to?</p><p>He could’ve fallen for someone in the time they’ve been in America. All the women he’s seduced, some she’s sure she doesn’t even know about. As partners, they’re aware of each other’s missions when they diverge, but sometimes the means of how they attain their ends are left out, unimportant, as long as it’s a success. And every time it is—every time he comes home, loosens his tie, and tells her what he’s learned—she hates him, and the Center, a little for it. And herself, for being so weak. For betraying her motherland. A betrayal worse than infidelity in a fake marriage.</p><p>But the children they’re expected to have—those will be very much real. She’s never seen herself as maternal, but the thought of having a son or daughter isn’t as dreadful as she thought it would be. It’s the attachment she fears. The ease into the life she’s been fighting against, the questioning of the KGB, of what she’s doing, what she believes in, and everything she’s given up. Including love.</p><p>As she drains the last of her vodka, shivering as the coolness slides down her throat, she remembers an old Slavic proverb her mother used to say.</p><p>
  <strong>Волко́в боя́ться -- в лес не ходи́ть.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>If you’re afraid of wolves, don’t go into the woods.</em>
</p><p>Too late, she thinks from the darkness of the trees.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Numbers stations are real, and are still transmitted! They provide a completely uncrackable code by using a one-time pad full of truly random letters/numbers (the key) that never gets re-used, with the benefit of governments never knowing who's listening in and receiving the message (analog baby). You can find a schedule of them on priyom (dot) org, as well as a link to a shortwave radio broadcast online through the University of Twente. If you want to hear really creepy defunct ones from the Cold War, look up the Linconshire Poacher and Bohemian Rhapsody on YouTube. To date, not a single cypher has ever been cracked, nor will it be.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains a (very short) sex scene between Rey and Poe—the only non-Reylo one in the fic. You can skip over it if you'd like, but I think it's important to show how Rey is on a mission, what she goes through, what goes on in her head. As well as a few other details/parallels.</p><p>I extended this from three chapters to five after writing out an outline. I might maybe be able to condense it to four; we’ll see how it goes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The energy in the club has a pulse, throbbing along to strobe lights, to the beat of “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell blasting out of the speakers. Neon signs buzz on the walls above the bar, glowing hot pink on Poe’s immaculately white blazer and trousers.</p><p>Rey takes a sip of her Bay Breeze, pretending not to notice the way his eyes drift down the front of her maroon dress, which she knows compliments her ivory skin and dark hair better than anything else in her closet, except maybe the navy one. But she chose red specifically for tonight—the color of passion, of primality. She wants Poe to think of sex. To fantasize about ripping it off her body and fucking her, consequences be damned. His friendship with Ben be damned. It’s why she also forwent a bra.</p><p>It seems to be working. The drunker he gets, the less subtle he is about staring at her body. All it’ll take now is a little push. She places her hand gently on his forearm leaning against the bar—a casual touch that lingers two seconds too long. Just enough to tease. Enough to make him believe she’s feeling it too, but she’s nervous, you see. She’s never done this before. She’s never dreamed of cheating on her husband until she met Poe. He’s <em>special</em>.</p><p>He leans in, a smile on his face. Ben was right—he does reek of Drakkar Noir. The spicy, masculine scent fills her nostrils. It’s not unpleasant, it’s just… a lot. Ben’s cologne Troynoy is much cleaner—citrusy, with a lavender and mint middle note and amber base note. She’s not certain how he gets it imported from the USSR, other than as a favor from Kenobi.</p><p>“Thanks for coming out with me tonight,” he half-yells into her ear.</p><p>“Of course,” she replies easily.</p><p>“I’m sorry Ben couldn’t make it,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.</p><p>Rey bites her bottom lip, as if she’s holding back the words. “I’m not.”</p><p>Poe’s smile breaks out into a toothy grin. He takes another swig of his Coors Light.</p><p>“Did you want to dance?” she asks, dancing in place as the song transitions to the “Where Did Our Love Go” mash-up halfway through.</p><p>Poe places his beer bottle on the bar, then holds out his hand gallantly. She lets him lead her onto the dance floor, where she dances seductively under the flashing lights, her hips and shoulders swaying, her arms rising above her head, then caressing down her body.</p><p>Whatever last barrier holding Poe back finally breaks, a dam of desire coursing towards her as he closes the distance between them. One hot hand is on her lower back, the other sliding over her ass, his hips gyrating against hers, his dick half-hard.</p><p>She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little turned on. But it’s purely physical; he’s not her type whatsoever. She knew plenty of guys like him back home. Granted, Poe’s wealthier and more sophisticated than the Smolensk men who wear wife-beaters and insist they can wrestle a bear, but they share that same smarmy swagger and penchant for showing off.</p><p>Case in point: His cherry red Porsche 944, which is speeding down the highway now. “Don’t Go” by Yaz is pounding out of the speakers like CPR, desperately trying to keep the night alive.</p><p>Rey’s got the passenger-side window cranked down to let the crisp November air ground her. She’s not drunk—she’d never let herself get too inebriated on a mission—but a little buzzed and overheated from the stuffy atmosphere of the club.</p><p>When they turn onto their street, he glances over at her. “Do you want to maybe come inside for a few minutes? I got a brand-new stereo system I’m dying to show off.”</p><p>It’s obviously a line, but that’s what makes Rey good at her job—she makes him think he’s seducing her and not the other way around. If she were too aggressive, he’d be turned off. For men like Poe, the chase is half the fun.</p><p>“Yeah, sure,” she says. “But only a few minutes.”</p><p>He pulls into his garage and turns off the engine. When she climbs out and straightens the hem of her dress, she glances over at her own house across the street. The bedroom light is on. But before she can notice anything else, the garage door slides all the way down.</p><p>She follows Poe to the door, leading into the kitchen that’s an exact copy of hers, only with fewer appliances and a sink full of dishes.</p><p>“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks as he weaves around the island. “I’ve got cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, rosé… I might have some bubbly too…”</p><p>“Whatever you’re having is fine,” she says as she shrugs out of her black trench coat, her eyes scanning the mostly empty living room, save for the ridiculous stereo system. “Wow, Zorii really cleared you out, huh?”</p><p>Poe sighs as he twists the corkscrew into a bottle of white wine. “Yeah. She gets the kid most nights too, though I get to have him every other weekend. And Christmas Eve, but not Christmas Day.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”</p><p>“I’m surprised you and Ben don’t have any kids.” He overpours the wine into two glasses. “Never wanted ‘em?”</p><p>“It just… never happened I guess. The timing’s always been off.” After she says this, she realizes there’s truth there, in more ways than one.</p><p>Poe saunters over to her, handing her one of the wine glasses. “I want to thank you again for coming out with me tonight,” his says, his voice going low, quiet, almost whispering even though the house is empty. “I really needed the distraction. You’re… a <em>gorgeous</em> distraction.”</p><p>Rey fakes a demure smile before taking a sip of the wine. She’s tempted to drink it all—it’ll make what’s obviously about to happen next much more enjoyable. But even though she doesn’t need to be on high alert, she still needs to keep her head.</p><p>“From the divorce or work?” she casually prods.</p><p>“Both.” He leans in, kissing down her neck.</p><p>“Anything… <em>exciting</em> happening at the office? It’s like you’re James Bond or something. <em>Agent Dameron</em>.”</p><p>Poe preens. “Yeah, there is actually. I’d tell you but…”—he winks—“then I’d have to kill you.”</p><p>Before she can ask him more, he’s capturing her lips with his own.</p><p>*</p><p>Rey’s had sex with plenty of men—and a few women—in the three and a half years she’s been a spy, but this is the first time she’s done it on a waterbed. It kind of makes her seasick, especially as Poe’s the jackhammer type. She’s not sure how he doesn’t come in thirty seconds at this pace, but then again, she’s pretty sure he’s amped up on coke. He makes more trips to the bathroom than anyone she’s ever met.</p><p>At some point, he randomly stands up and walks away. She thinks he’s going to go snort some more, but when he returns, she sees rope twisted in his hands.</p><p>“Is this okay?” he asks.</p><p>This has taken an unexpected turn. She’s engaged in BDSM before, but bondage isn’t something she ever agrees to. She always has a gun and a knife on her—not to mention her training in Systema, the Russian martial art—but what’s the use of them if you’re tied up? It’s practically asking to be murdered if things go wrong.</p><p>But she knows Poe. Or at least, she thinks she does. And if this gets her closer to achieving her goal…</p><p>“It’s fine.” She nods, trying not to think about how this should only be done with someone she trusts completely. And the only person in the world who fits that description.</p><p>Poe expertly binds her wrists together behind her back. Then her thighs to her calves. “There’s a thing called a safe word,” he explains as if she’s an innocent doe; one he wants so badly to ruin. “Say it and I’ll stop. What do you want yours to be?”</p><p>“Um…” She has to think. She says the first thing that comes to mind: “Red.” Blood, sex, violence. Her dress, his car, the color of communism.</p><p>He goes back to fucking her, because make no mistake, this is <em>fucking</em>. And she prefers it that way. Slow, tender lovemaking with plenty of kissing is too intimate. The waves of the water jolt like a storm at sea as he jams his cock into her over and over, one hand gripping her bound wrists as the other pulls on her hair. He slaps her ass once in a while, muttering how she’s such a naughty girl for cheating, and imagine if Ben walked in right now and saw her like this? She thinks he’s getting off on that more than anything else.</p><p>Most of the time, she fakes pleasure as well as a porn star. Tonight, however, she doesn’t need to. She’s surprised when an orgasm slams into her as hard as the headboard against the wall, which maybe isn’t so surprising given his lothario reputation. It’s the reason he was served with divorce papers.</p><p>After he comes and the water calms, he unties her, then gets up to dispose of the condom. Rey rubs her raw wrists, then picks up her purse on the floor, pulling out her pack of Sobranie Black Russians next to her Makarov pistol. She dangles the gold-tipped filter between her lips and lights the end, a rush of nicotine hitting her like a gust of wind. It burns orange in the darkness.</p><p>She lies back against the headboard, the black silk sheet wrapped around her sweat-sheened body, waiting for him to return to bed so she can prod some more. Maybe in his post-coital state he’ll let something slip.</p><p>From downstairs, she hears The Police play. Poe must be messing about with his new favorite toy.</p><p>Rey gets dressed, knowing it’s not the right time. If she knows anything, it’s how important timing is. The difference between success and failure, even life and death, can be down to a second.</p><p>There’s a nagging sense of failure she can’t completely shake off. But she consoles herself that even if she didn’t get any information about Pluttev out of him tonight, at the very least, she established a closer connection with him. She laid the groundwork.</p><p>She says goodbye with a promise to do this again sometime, then closes the front door behind her, still able to hear “Every Breath You Take” through the brick and mortar.</p><p>
  <em>Every move you make… Every vow you break…</em>
</p><p>As she crosses the street, she looks up at her bedroom window. The light’s off now, but the silhouette of Ben watching her is unmistakable.</p><p>The white curtain falls back.</p><p>*</p><p>When she walks into the darkened house, she doesn’t bother to flip any switches on. The only light comes from the fridge door as she opens it to grab a bottle of water. As she downs it, she spies a tin foiled-wrapped plate of dinner Ben had saved for her. He’s a shockingly good cook, while she can barely boil water. The opposite of the traditional, stereotypical dynamic she supposes, not that either of them care. It works for them, whatever it is they have.</p><p>After she wolfs down the cold chicken and asparagus, she takes her time washing the plate, then tiptoes up the cream-carpeted steps in her bare feet, clutching her heels in one hand.</p><p>When she slowly opens the door to their bedroom, Ben’s in bed, turned away on his side. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling with deep, slow breaths.</p><p>She sheds her dress like a snakeskin, then takes a long, scalding shower, scrubbing the night off. When she finally slips into bed beside him—her hair wet, her skin smelling of powdery roses, feeling as clean as a newborn—she’s just about to drift off to memories of homemade <em>oladyi</em> and her babushka reading to her when she hears:</p><p>“Anything?”</p><p>“No,” she says.</p><p>“Well, there’s always next time.”</p><p>And if she weren’t so exhausted, she could have sworn there was a faint trace of bitterness in his voice, underlying his calm, deep monotone like arsenic.</p><p>*</p><p>The next morning, Rey’s getting dressed in front of the closet, about to pull an emerald sweater over her tank top when her forearm is suddenly seized.</p><p>“What the <em>fuck</em> is this?” Ben growls.</p><p>When she looks at him, there’s such a dark ferocity contorting his features that for a few seconds, she doesn’t know what to say. She thinks this is what it must feel like to be one of their enemies, on the opposite side of a war conducted so quietly in the shadows that most Americans don’t even know it’s happening.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” she says as she regains her footing again.</p><p>“<em>Nothing?!</em>” His grip turns almost painful as he holds the blooming blue and purple bruise up. “Does <em>this</em> look like <em>nothing </em>to you?!”</p><p>“It happens sometimes,” she snaps.</p><p>Now Ben looks like he doesn’t know what to say. He stands there, staring at her as if he’s never seen her before. As if he didn’t know the risks. As if he didn’t know how dedicated she was.</p><p>Rey yanks her arm back, then finishes putting her sweater on, pushing the sleeves down. She doesn’t look at him as she glides past, out the door, on the way to the kitchen, eager to get to their routine. The one semblance of normality in an otherwise unpredictable and perilous life.</p><p>Ben pushes past her on the landing, flying down the steps.</p><p>“Where are you going?” she asks, but she already knows the answer. “Wait! <em>Stop! Ben!</em>”</p><p>She catches up to him in the basement. She watches him hide his gun behind his back, in the waistband of his jeans, before slamming the safe door closed, the iron making a jarring sound. “What are you going to do?! Go over there and blow both our covers?!”</p><p>“I’m going to deal with it,” he says, his voice as cold as the steel of the gun.</p><p>Rey grabs his arm before he can go back up the steps, because she knows once he does, he’ll be lost to her. “If I wanted him to be <em>dealt with</em>, you don’t think I would have dealt with it? Do you think I’m weak? Is that what you think?”</p><p>“You’re the strongest person I know. That doesn’t mean that you have to take that shit, Rey. There are other ways of getting information.”</p><p>“I was in complete control. I always am.”</p><p>Ben’s looking to the side, at some crack in the cement wall. Or maybe he doesn’t even see it. “I don’t like it,” he finally says, removing the gun from his jeans but not yet putting it back.</p><p>“That’s what we signed up for.” Her voice is quieter now, the tension in the air dissipating. “I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. You’re not my father.”</p><p>Ben’s head snaps to her. “Your <em>father?</em> No, I’m not your <em>daddy.</em> Though apparently Poe was last night.” Every word is dripping with poison that she’s afraid to touch, lest it seeps into her bloodstream and she loses control of the situation.</p><p>The wisest course of action is to ignore him. He’s not thinking rationally, and there’s no point in continuing the conversation. She’s stopped him from doing something incredibly rash and stupid, and that’s the important part. She just needs to make sure the tide doesn’t turn again. She’ll need to make sure she covers the rest of the bruises with clothing and make-up until they fade.</p><p>In the meantime, Rey slowly pulls the gun out of his hand. He resists her at first, his grip tight, but after a few seconds, he lets her take it. She puts it back into the safe. When she looks at Ben again, his face is as smooth and impassive as a mask, as if this never happened. Which is fine by her.</p><p>*</p><p>True to his word, the next time they meet, it’s in a warm safehouse. Rain patters upon the windowpanes, blurring the headlights outside as the cars whoosh through the wet streets.</p><p>Kenobi places a teapot down on the round kitchen table, next to a plate of <em>ptichye moloko</em>. “I picked this up from a bakery a few blocks away from here.”</p><p>As he slides his chair out and sits down, Rey eyes the decadent chocolate ganache. “I thought you wanted us to assimilate,” she teases. “You should have bought apple pie.”</p><p>He cuts out a piece, places it delicately on a floral plate, then places it down in front of her.</p><p>Rey digs in, the soufflé-like custard and moist sponge cake melting in her mouth. She moans. “God, this is better than sex.” She then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.</p><p>But Kenobi laughs. “If you think so Kira, then clearly things aren’t going so well with Konstantin.”</p><p>She takes her time chewing. “Clearly not,” she says after she finally swallows.</p><p>Kenobi pours the tea into two cups, the porcelain chipped along the edges of one of them. “Is there a particular reason why both of you have ignored the Center on this? Is he… abusive to you, Kira?”</p><p>Rey shakes her head.</p><p>“Would you feel more comfortable being assigned with someone else?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” she blurts out with a passion that surprises both her and her handler. “I mean, like you said, it’s been three and a half years. We know each other well.” She cuts another forkful of cake. “At least, how we operate, anyway.”</p><p>Kenobi nods, always understanding more than she wants him to. “Any update on Pluttev?” he thankfully changes the subject.</p><p>“We’re working on it. Or at least, I am.” She sips the Darjeeling. “I don’t know exactly what <em>Ben’s</em> doing,” she mutters over the rim.</p><p>“I’m certain Konstantin’s working just as hard as you are on this,” he says.</p><p>“Does the Center really believe him dating the secretary is going to get Pluttev?”</p><p>“They know what they’re doing. You have to trust them.”</p><p>“Trust is a hard thing to come by.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Kenobi agrees, his chin on his hand, his elbow on the table, watching her enjoy the treats. “Surely you trust your partner?”</p><p>A flash of all the times Ben has had her back. Going first into the unknown, unsure of who they might find. Shielding her from gunfire with his massive body. “I do.”</p><p>“Then trust that. Trust that we all want the same things. That we’re all fighting for the same cause. That we all must make <em>sacrifices</em> for the greater good.”</p><p>Rey nods, practically hearing the state anthem of the Soviet Union swell patriotically in the dingy room.</p><p>*</p><p>The order arrives two days later with express shipping.</p><p>When she pulls it out of the package, she fingers the lace and silk the same way she revels in cashmere. When she lived in Smolensk, she only wore used clothing—items from charity shops and hand-me-downs from relatives and neighbors. Everything was worn, faded, stitched and re-stitched.</p><p>A flash of her mother’s weathered hands, sewing something in her lap as she sat on the couch behind a rug hanging on the wall.</p><p>Rey peers at her own hands. They’re soft, without calluses or blisters. Her one-carrot princess-cut diamond ring sparkles on her left ring finger. They were given simple gold bands before they even left Moscow, but Ben had insisted that it would look more realistic if she also had an engagement ring, so he’d bought one for her two years ago. With their own money earned from the travel company.</p><p>Before she can stop herself, she wonders if that was just an excuse. If he’d wanted her to have it as a symbol of a real marriage, running parallel to the gold band of their fake one.</p><p>No, that’s ridiculous. She needs to stop these childish thoughts.</p><p>She undresses, then puts the lingerie from La Perla on, staring at herself in the full-length oval mirror in the corner of her bedroom. Midnight black bra and panties, with thigh-high stockings hooked to a lacy garter wrapped around her stomach, below her navel.</p><p>It was expensive. She hopes it’s worth it.</p><p>At her vanity, she applies smudgy charcoal and mascara for a smokey eye, then crimson lipstick, blotting it with a tissue just as she hears the door close downstairs.</p><p>Ben’s home.</p><p>Rey quickly moves over to the bed, lying down in the most seductive pose she can think of: her upper body supported by her forearms behind her, her breasts pushed out, and one knee up, crossing over the other leg, which is flat against the mattress.</p><p>Her eyes are half-lidded, sultry. As if she’s been expecting him. As if she’s been waiting like this for a while. Hours, maybe.</p><p>Or years.</p><p>Every second that passes feels like an eternity. God, she’s nervous, and she’s <em>never</em> nervous.</p><p>Footsteps up the stairs.</p><p>The door opens.</p><p>Her heart thumps erratically in her chest.</p><p>Ben takes one step into the room, then freezes. And Ben <em>never</em> freezes.</p><p>He looks like he doesn’t know what he’s seeing. His hazel eyes are wide, his lips parted. She thinks he’s stopped breathing.</p><p>“Do you like what you see?” Rey asks, her voice so low, it doesn’t even sound like her.</p><p>This seems to break him out of it. His chest inflates, as if he’s preparing to say something, but then he’s looking away, his lips pressed together. He runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed waves.</p><p>“Is there something you could put on?” he demands, still not looking at her.</p><p>Rey’s heart plummets into her stomach. She sits up, her seductive pose forgotten. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Ben loosens his tie, a muscle in his clenched jaw jumping. “Nothing.”</p><p>He unbuttons his shirt as he walks over to the closet, then pulls it off, throwing it into the hamper with a little more force than necessary. He begins sifting through his hanging shirts with a laser-focus.</p><p>Rey stands up, her arms crossed over her chest. “Going somewhere?”</p><p>“Yes,” he says brusquely. She waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>He finally picks a shirt, sliding his muscled arms through the sleeves. As he begins buttoning it up, he grunts, “Kaydel’s.”</p><p>“Do you have to do that <em>tonight? </em>” Her tone comes harsher than she intends it, so she calms herself down, softens. “I was hoping maybe—”</p><p>“I know what you were hoping. Or rather, what the Center was hoping.”</p><p>Rey blinks rapidly. “Are we not supposed to be following orders?”</p><p>“I <em>am</em>,” he seethes, finally looking at her. His eyes are dark, intense, piercing.</p><p>“You don’t need to keep seeing her.” She hopes it sounds like she’s being logical and not irrationally jealous. “I’ve already established a connection with Poe.”</p><p>“And did you get anything out of him?”</p><p>“No, not yet, but—”</p><p>“<em>That’s</em> why, sweetheart.” Ben pushes past her, heading towards the bathroom.</p><p>A few minutes later, he emerges. Not as Konstantin Renov or Benjamin Solo, but Clyde Westerfeld, an insurance agent. He’s freshly shaved, wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a medium brown wig, shorter and straighter than his real hair.</p><p>“We need to talk about this,” Rey pleads, a robe now tied around her body, hating how desperate she sounds in this moment. “We need to…” She trails off, then tries again. “We need to—”</p><p>“And we will,” Ben says, swinging a leather jacket on. “We are, after all, obedient little spies. Especially you, doing what needs to be done for the motherland. Don’t worry, I’ll try to be as quick as possible. All you’ll need to do is lie back and think of Karl Marx.”</p><p>Clyde turns around and walks out. Rey glares at his back as he leaves, wondering what the hell just happened. Where she went wrong.</p><p>She spends the rest of the night going over every detail over and over, the way she does with any failed mission.</p><p>Eventually, she turns that magnifying glass onto herself.</p><p>It finally dawns on her why her heart feels so heavy. Why she goes for that third glass of vodka. Why she keeps re-winding melancholic songs, chain-smoking into the wee hours of the morning. Why she can’t sleep until she feels him slide in bed beside her. Until she knows he’s safe.</p><p>She was always afraid that letting him touch her would make her fall in love with him.</p><p>But it’s too late. It’s already happened, slowly, without her even noticing it. The way a glacier melts or a decade segues into the next.</p><p>And an even worse realization; one she wishes she never knew:</p><p>He doesn’t feel the same way. He couldn’t even stand to touch her after he’d been ordered to.</p><p>She’d only failed at a seduction once before, when the man turned out to prefer other men. But she knows for a fact Ben isn’t gay. He must really find her repugnant.</p><p>Rey tries not to let this get to her, but it cuts deeper than the time she got stabbed in the left shoulder, a little closer to her lung than she was comfortable with. As she absentmindedly caresses the scar, she remembers Ben pressing his balled-up shirt to the wound to stop the bleeding, looking more worried than she’s ever seen him. She remembers him sanitizing the wound with Stoli, then carefully stitching her up as she sat slumped on the tiled floor of the bathroom, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration, his touch containing a gentleness she didn’t know he was capable of.</p><p>It should be enough, to be such good partners. Kenobi’s words from a few days ago echo in her head—“greater good” and “sacrifice.”</p><p>Rey knows a lot about sacrifice. But for once, she had found herself hoping.</p><p>As she puts her comfiest pajamas on, she tries not to think about Ben in bed with Kaydel. She hits STOP on the boombox, then climbs into bed, trying to will herself to sleep. It’s not like he’s in any danger tonight.</p><p>An hour later, she hears him come in. She hears shuffling around. The running water of the shower. Feels the mattress compress with his weight behind her.</p><p>A minute goes by. Then, a whisper in the darkness: “Are you awake?”</p><p>She doesn’t say anything.</p><p>The springs shift and squeak. She thinks he’s turning on his side to find a more comfortable position to sleep, but then she feels his arm wrap around her stomach, his body pressed against the length of hers.</p><p>He’s never done this before. They don’t <em>cuddle</em>. They usually sleep as far away from each other as possible, practically on the edge, an imaginary line drawn down the queen-sized mattress.</p><p>Rey moves her hand to rest it over his.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please let me know if you liked. 🖤</p></blockquote></div></div>
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